Dear Grandma Oma

Dear Grandma Oma,

It wasn't till after you left that I realized the name I gave you meant Grandma Grandma. I just thought Oma was your name. The last time I saw you, you were in the hospital bed, oxygen tubes, slow beeps and white sheets, your hair soft, almost translucent. I read you Dr. Suess. Did you hear me? Could you hear the words? I saw my letter on the wall, my mom said you liked it. Did you like it? Could you read the words?

Did you know that I'm a writer now, Grandma? Did you know that I have a box of your costume jewelry and I wear your silver chain around my neck everyday with a little penchant that says 'Inkspinner.' I think of it as my writing mezuzah. Before I got my ears pierced I used to wear your costume earrings, the pearl ones were my favorite.

I didn't cry when you died. I was too young to understand death, too far to understand you. And now you're so far and I hate myself for being so young and caring more about the parakeet in your rest home than your stories.

It's only now that you're gone that you've become my hero. I don't ask about you a lot, but I think about you a lot. I know all the facts, the ones that have been mythologized by time, leaving Germany two months, one month, before Hitler gained control, the linzer tortes and the bunions on your feet.

But I don't even know if you were happy. And I live each day conscious of the fact that you had to leave everything you had, the smells, sights, family you loved, breathed. What was it like, how did you cope? Did you cope? Grandma, I'm trying to be Jewish, to discover all you had to leave behind in suitcases, hold the prayers you carried through Ellis Island in your hands. But Grandma, when the holocaust came did you expect it? Is that why you left? Can you talk about it? I can't.

And would you hate me if I said I believe in Jesus but I still consider myself a Jew? What do you think of that, Grandma Oma? What do you think of me?

My mom still makes your linzer torte. In our house, we have a sculpture she made of you, a painting too. She misses you so much. I miss you too, but I miss someone I never knew. My dad sometimes impersonates your voice. “Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?” Did you really used to say that?

Sometimes I'm afraid that you were not the woman I think you were, at all, this woman with strong legs, crossing seas, tending a family in the dark jungles of New York City, teaching your mouth new foreign phrases in a one room apartment of generations. Generations all crammed into this little space, babies, a father, a husband who would die before your feet fully settled. I think of you as a matriarch of my soul, the one who paved the way for my heels, sacrificed so that your children, and your children's children, and your children's children's children, me, would never have to know what it's like. We will never have to know what it's like to our roots ripped from our soles, the dignity lifted from our heads, to walk through the human herds of a strange new city searching for your humanity.

You fought for your humanity and now I never have to. But how could you find humanity, how could you find freedom in the face of such great change, of such great tragedy happening behind you? Did you you find it, Grandma? Where did you find it?

Grandma Oma, did you read the letter I wrote for you, the one on your hospital wall? Are you reading this one? Are you even who I think you are? Does it even matter?

Sometimes when I think of you, I cry. I guess I cry for all the times I should have cried then? I'm mad I never thanked you for the sacrifices you made. I'm mad that I remember you best by the way your candy glass beads look strung around your neck and the scent in your bathroom. Isn't it horrible, Grandma, that I remember the chocolate you gave me and the oxygen tanks better than I remember the sound of your voice?

I hate this, I hate that I never actually knew you, that you don't know me. Can you see me, can you read this? Thank you Grandma, thank you. Thank you for protecting your soul, so that I'd always have mine. Thank you for leaving, for starting over nre so that later on my feet could keep their roots. Thank you. Thank you, Grandma Oma. Thank you. And I don't know if you could read the first letter I wrote you so maybe you can read this one. I love you and I miss what I know of you and all of you that I'll never know.

Hannah  

Cut out words

Today my friend Josh came out to my little beach town with a film canister filled with cut out words. He helped me glue and secure lots of little poems all around, created from the words. They are now sprinkled all through town, the post office, sea walls, church, library, graveyard etc. Here are just a couple of my favorites.

(sea wall)
The cry that
anchored
old hand-carved
reflections

(newspaper box)
She began
selling 
books
expressing
her experience
fading
golden sands
howling peak

(dock)
I thought
history
remained silent
A proper girl
eyeing the
discovered

(graveyard bench)
The chaos had failed
all these choices
alive
or dying
the other speak sleep
try to

(park)

any sensible

grown 

ship

flies

shifted out of pocket

 (church arch)

A small town

already

illuminated

questions

turbulent waves

To Be An Artist

Monologue written from the perspective of Adi,a character in a novel I'm working on.

I'm not shy. Everyone thinks I'm shy, but I'm not. I'm just quiet, I think a lot. But I'm not sure people see that. I want them to see me as this quiet person worth getting to know, worth drawing out. You know, like I'm butterfly in a cocoon and if you just have some patience, I'll emerge. Gosh, that sounds stupid. I was trying to sound literary and stuff, but that never works. You're the writer, not me.

You always say that everyone is an artist. I don't really think that's true but I'd like to think that. It would be nice if people look at me, me who doesn't say much and just assume I'm deep in artsy brilliant thoughts. I bet Van Gogh didn't talk much either. He spent a lot of his time in his room, too. And then think of Michelangelo, he spent years painting way up high in that Sistine Chapel. He probably wasn't social either. Maybe I'm like that, maybe I just need a lot of time alone so that I can get to my masterpieces. I guess it's wishful thinking, but it's sure nice to think maybe I can seem brilliant, or I don't know just special.

You know how I collect stuff? Like that bottle collection and all those random sticks? You call me a pack rat, but have you ever actually those sticks in my room? And then there's all the sea shells and sea glass I pick up. But none of it's sitting in my room. You once asked me about that. I didn't answer you. Well the truth is, well part of the truth is, I use it. I use it for art projects. It makes me feel like maybe I could be an artist. I know I'm not, but I could be.

I don't want to tell you what kind of art projects, it's a secret. That's another thing I collect, secrets. Remember when we used to share secrets, before I started collected, before I stopped sharing mine with you? But I guess I owe you at least one secret. I'll tell you one of mine but I can't show you it. I'll tell you what I use those things I collect for.

I'm building a village under my bed. I've been building it since I was 9. That's six years ago. I didn't even tell you about it back then. I've built little houses out of sticks and bark and broken tea cups, turned thimbles into buckets, glued moss to parts of the carpet. I make little yarn figures, place them on popsicle stick chairs. I even have twine hammocks hanging from the bed frame. There's a little pumpkin patch of orange marbles and fake plants. I've even painted the back of my wall with a sky of swirls and clouds and colors. My mom would kill me if she knew. I have a small clay gnome, you know I love gnomes. The village is my secret. No one has ever seen it.

I keep a lot of secrets. They make me feel safe, I don't know, maybe they give me power. I spend a lot of my time alone collecting them or building them. I don't bring you to the Spirt House with me because you wouldn't understand. You'd think I was snooping. I guess I am. But you snoop too, what do you think all your gossip is? I know you're going to judge me for this, but I guess I just like stories. And secrets are stories you know.

You'd be amazed what I've figured out. But I can't tell you. I just want you to know. Know that I have secrets. Then maybe I'll seem important. Maybe you will actually need me. I just want you to know I know things.

Because when people know you have secrets, they know you're important. And you know who have the most secrets? Artists. They steal them and they write them down. They don't just collect secrets, they paint them, they hide them in strokes and in the curves of sculptures. I want to do that. I want to be an artist. There I said it. I want to be an artist. Now, don't gloat.

But I don't know how. I know what you say, that everyone is an artist. But they're not. I'm not. I'm not an artist. Unless the village under my bed, the secrets I collect make me one. But it doesn't. It doesn't make me an artist. Because an artist has to be brilliant, to make beautiful things. Artists are people like you, people who can write amazing things and make people cry and still be elegant. That's what an artist is. And I'm not that. I'm just this quiet little girl with a head full of secrets. That's not an artist.  

The Dove

 She sits on the scratched wood floor, her back resting against the slanted wall. It's dark in the room, he knows he shouldn't have picked this room for filming. He adjust the tripod, she plays with a string of her sandy brown hair. Leo looks at the two of them. He tries to ease the tension. “Well look at us, bonding in the storage room, how sweet.” Zara fakes a smile, Patrick refocuses his camera.

“Yeah so, Patrick wanted me to ask the interview questions, while he's doing artsy crap with the camera.” explains Leo.

Zara nods. Patrick blushes, looks to Zara, but not at Zara. “I just want to do a lot of close ups of your face, if that's cool, I mean.” Zara pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, why?”

Patrick doesn't respond, so Leo answers for him. “Because he's not all that good with like, you know, social stuff, so he's trying to hit on you by zooming in on your eyeballs and up your nostrils.” Patrick turns the color of a cherry tomato, Leo slaps him on the back. Zara reaches for the silver chain around her neck, rubs the silver dove pendant uncomfortably. “Don't listen to him. This is just for the school assignment.” Patrick rushes in, dropping the words at the end of his sentence.

Zara shrugs.

“Okay, enough of this crap.” begins Leo. “First question?”

Zara Nods. Patrick, with evident relief, presses the record button.

“Name, Age, Interest?” Leo asks.

“Um, Zara. Zara Schwartz. I'm 16 and I, well I'm a clown, well, training to be one.” Her eyes flit about. Patrick moves the camera closer to her, he kneels, holding the camera a couple feet away from her.

“How did you get involved in clowning?'

“Um.” she tugs at her necklace. Patrick leans forward, zooms in on her face, the prominent cheeks bones, long lashes. He can smell her, a sweet, soft rose scent, contrasted against the dusty, damp smell of the storage room. Zara tries to ignore him, she stares down at her hands.

“I mean, it's going to sound strange..but..well..I don't really to talk about it. But when I was in middle school, my stomach ruptured.”

Leo shakes his head, “What, why?!”

“I just well, I don't really want to talk about why, just well, I ended up in the hospital then and..”

Patrick scoots closer to her, holding the camera inches away from her face. Through the lens he's starring into her green eyes with gold speckles, long blond eyelashes blinking, he can see the little freckles dotting her nose. She flinches.

“Uh, Patrick?”

He moves the camera down, towards the nape of her neck, to her collarbone, farther.

She quickly crosses her arms across her chest. “Uh, Patrick?”

Leo looks at his friend. “Dude?!”

Patrick focuses the camera on her silver pendant, the dove with an olive branch in its mouth. Before she can respond, he reaches out,grabs the pendant with one hand and with one deft turn, snaps the bird off its chain. The chain falls to the ground. Patrick holds the pendant. All three look at the small silver dove nested in his palm.

Zara begins to cry.

Body Systems

I thought by now, I would have found the chart in a textbook
right and left atrium
left and right ventricle
blood flows in the heart from the vena cava to the right atrium
storyboarded out
Girl grows up--->Girl learns stuff-->Girl figures out heart-->heart beats independently of nervous system and pericardium always protects, anchors and covers the heart
But apparently emotions don't stick to body systems
and physiology has not been the answer to all my heart palpitations
It's not like I'm in love, It's not like I've ever been in love
and I don't write poems about particular guys
And least not ones I show
It's just maybe sometimes blood doesn't flow through my heart like it's supposed to
It rushes to my ears, plays at my finger tips
heart hijacks nervous system, sends messages to brain
Muse over this
Re-evaluate this
translate that
And my brain, my poor little brain
which wants nothing more than to be a sensible, intelligent creature can't deal with my heart
her bold assertions, cardiac cycle of contractions, oxygenated/deoxygenated blood
and simply sits split between its four cerebrum lobes
hoping for higher functioning, sitting like a useless flower pot
swaying from right side to left side to heart
Or maybe, maybe this has nothing to do with hearts, because hearts don't control your emotions
maybe this poem is more about hormones
I don't know, I'm confused
Physiology textbooks really aren't all that great at explaining hearts
but maybe it's just that I haven't found the right chart yet, maybe the explanation is in the index
maybe they forget to write this all in
I'm just not finding any answers
Where's the footnote, where's the paragraph on why
emotions don't stick to body systems?

The Lovely People

Sometimes I like listening to my heartbeat
wondering how long it would take to look in the mirror till I can see myself as beautiful
how many poems I would need to write to cover my indecencies and backside

Maybe lovely people are the ones full of light
or maybe the lonely ones
I'm not quite sure.
Because I find ripped quilts and sandy toes quite lovely too 
and people don't usually have the attributes of porcelain teacups or foamy waves

I think my giggle is a note off for the lovely ones
It's a little squeaky, but I like how it sounds.
Sitting in a church pew, choking back laughter
oh, isn't religion funny?
aren't people droll?
and doesn't this ocean breeze make you want to run your hand through your hair and sing
I'll tell you a secret/I've got them sugar water blues/where everything's real sweet/But I can't help but think about you?

I'll tell you another secret
Sometimes I want to stand out in this wind naked
with a notebook pressed against my stomach
and a pen in my hand
It has something to do with feeling innocent, 
knowing nothing but this wind, my goosebumps and flesh
The sensation of shivers with the association of emotion

Sometimes, I think I care too much about my clothes
maybe that's how they decide if I am one of those people,
one of those lovely people
or maybe it's the curvature of my cheeks and hips
maybe the closer one's curves are to a circle
the closer one is to complete

It's not like loveliness has a definition or perfection has a form
Just sometimes, I want to know if I am one of those
the lovely people
without knowing what that means

I said I love the broken people
the slightly askew noses and shoes
misplaced clocks and wind blown hair
mismatched patterns, word snippets, ink spills

And I think waves are the ocean's lovely ones
and the clouds are the sky's pride
But I've never seen anyone who looks like the sky
or cries like the sea

Just sometimes I wonder if I looked long enough in the mirror
could I figure it out?
Could I figure out if I am one of those people,
the lovely ones?

But then again, sometimes I just stare out at this beach
listening to my heart beat
and I don't know if I look like one of those people
but I feel like one of them
a lovely, broken, sand sculpted being that can always touch the first wave of the sea
But I'm not sure if I'm one of those people
the lovely ones

Run Ons/Fragments

I've lost track of the number of times someone's told me "You're going to be a writer." This definite statement I've come to inherit, Mrs. Gibson, 7th grade "Have you ever considered being an author?"

My family, this rolling novella, part saga, part drama-a story of 5 people stuck in a house too small and hearts too wide, brains filled with entire libraries of books, postcards from Grandma, religious debates and sandy forests.

You have so many stories. I know, I know. You're going to be a writer. I know, I know.
I don't know.

I don't know what being a writer entails, if there is a certain cloth I need to wear, if I should use black or blue ink. I'm good at writing because I know my rules, but I'm not bound to them. I like being strategic, but I hate strategies. I know I'm going to be a writer, lived the course of a couple books-13 schools, 7 or so moves, bobcats, raccoons, 30 chickens, a VW bus, some miracles, nail polish/flaking paint hands, bright colors, patchwork people and a 5 3' frame against the backdrop of taller mirrors.

I've always felt marked, known some kind of buzz that comes with a pen, ink dancer, bzzzz. I never was good at ballet, but have you ever watched my pen twirl? You're going to be a writer. I know, I know. 

But I'm not afraid of that, I just know the feeling of a pen against my throat. Pens with arrows attached to them, "This way, this way!" And on the other end, I can't find my way back. I don't know what exactly I'm afraid of-maybe it's myself, maybe it isn't living up to all those voices, the ones that can't see the legitimacy in what I've become. All those be-rationals, be-sensibles, why would you go to college to scribble in your notebook, find a plan B, you'll never make money doing that, you'll never be successful doing that. 

The scariest thing is that most of the voices from me. This cracked creature, my deepest confidant and midnight whisperer. Today I thought, I'm grateful for the ability to love myself, this ability I haven't employed all year-not good enough, not good enough. 

And maybe this is why I entrust so much of myself to page, a page can't judge. It's not like I'm any different from anyone else, rather I seem to have found some find of loophole into an extension of myself that let's me look at my crookedness without hiding. And without that paper perspective, I come to loathe myself. And it's about that, sometimes. You're going to be a writer. I know. I know.

I reply. I hope so. I know so. But I think, I have to be. Not a stone, but rather if I don't write, I'll hate myself. I'll hate the curvature of this earth and its vertical lines. It isn't all about that, but it is sometimes. I just know that at some point writing became the one thing my life lacks-a definite structure, a structure that always knows my weight. Yes, structure, but the one thing I've come to most respect, a free willed freedom to rearrange, clean house, dust or throw glitter. A place for wet and dirty dogs, big black sweatshirts, little hands and grey high heel shoes.

It's a part of me I can't control, and I'm constantly letting go of. They say opposites attract. I've never known who exactly they are but maybe it's ironic. The control freak fell in love with a free spirited pen. I don't know. I don't know. It scares me.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. But it scares me. Like I've been branded. Like I've been branded with a recipe for success or a filing cabinet for disaster. Because Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

 I'm a hit the pavement running/bloodied knees/orsmoothsailing/brokenwings/orhighflying/marked with adjectives

gorgeous-plain
exceptional-just a know it all
hysterical-annoying
self aware-just plain oblivious
Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. It just scares me.